


She Walks in Beauty

by Neverlong



Category: Magi: The Labyrinth of Magic
Genre: Aladdin is wonderful, F/M, Forced Prostitution, Gen, In other news prostitution is bad, Male-Female Friendship, Other, Prompt Response, Reader-Insert, The World Will Never Know, You Have Been Warned, many goals, reader gets an out, reader might have killed a person, serious subject, such an inspiration, they're just kids
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-29
Updated: 2017-05-29
Packaged: 2018-11-06 11:01:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,342
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11034837
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Neverlong/pseuds/Neverlong
Summary: Based loosely off of "Pretty Hurts" by Beyoncé, as part of a prompt.





	She Walks in Beauty

You had never considered yourself pretty. Your mother had told you otherwise, but you never listened to her. Instead, you preferred the words of your father and your grandmother: you were a brilliant mess, a happy joke, the whispers between one tree and the next, a soft afternoon sun gazing painstakingly over a book. You were the creaking of wagons and the whinnies of horses, the aroma of spices carted along with fruits from your hometown.  
  
Even your brother's descriptions suited you better. In his eyes, you were bossy, too fast for him to keep up, and too good at listening for you to play hide and seek anymore.   
  
Pretty was too shallow, too repetitive, to entice you with its charms. You'd smile at your mother and thank her for her words, but what did she know?  
  
But pretty was all that anyone cared about, it seemed. _Pretty_ was why you were spared on a desert trek to Balbadd, the city of merchants, even when your family was slaughtered in front of you. Or maybe it was what you had heard from the men and women that pale morning: you were a young girl, unscarred, a little stubborn, but that could be beaten out of you real quick.  
  
"Have you ever seen a whip, pretty girl?" They had asked. You merely stared at the wagon and horses they had reigned under control, the spices and fruits they had stolen, the ground they had muddied with blood, so _much_ blood. Not even your younger brother, still just a kid, had been spared.  
  
And you, pretty and untouched—"It lowers the value,"—were gagged and guarded by strangers. Their faces molded into those of demons in the early light, and you didn't bother to correct the mental image.  
  
Here's what pretty was worth according to a whore house in Balbadd: two horses, enough money to cover three days of luxury for pitiless demons, and a lifetime of wondering how different Balbadd would feel if you'd arrived with your family intact.  
  
You were no longer a brilliant mess, just a feeling of homesickness. There were no trees for you to be the whispers between here. There was no hide and seek for you here.  
  
There were other women who coached you in your behavior. Kind women, impatient women—all pretty women. You were to be a demure little girl to cater to a certain crowd; smile on cue; duck your head and shoot your eyes across the room with a giggle; place a hand to your neck and drag it down your shoulder...   
  
So you did.  
  
And regretfully, shamefully, you still do.  
  
"Welcome, master!" you say to a blond man with golden eyes and what you assume is some sort of rope around his neck. You've painted your cheeks with rouge to look older, healthier, but he has no eyes for you and your pretty show. You grasp the man by the crook of his arm, shooting him a very pretty smile. "Would you like to play with me?"  
  
His response is more of a passing smile as he stares shamelessly at the more _developed_ women.  
  
"I think you're a little too young for that, but my friend over there looks like he could use some company."  
  
When you glance at his friend, you're struck by how young he is. You hate that he's here, in a whore house, watching his friend leave with some other women. Demurely, you excuse yourself from the man's side, though only after showing him to the group of girls he had been ogling since arriving.  
  
You slip past patrons and their outstretched claws, swatting at them playfully. You wink at those who take offense to it, and they seem to forgive you.  
  
"Hello, young master," you welcome the boy. "What's your name?"  
  
He's very young, with rounded cheeks and arms that look more like twigs on a new tree than flesh and bone. His voice is chipper when he replies to your question, "My name's Aladdin, miss!"  
  
"It's very nice to meet you, Aladdin. What would you like to do?" You shoot a glance at the man he came in with and almost pity the boy. _Almost._  
  
"I would like to know your name! It's only fair, after all."  
  
"My name?" You feign a giggle for his sake. "What do you think my name is?"  
  
"That's no fun," though he still smiles despite his words. "I can't guess your name. There are too many to choose from."  
  
"Then call me whatever you think suits me, Aladdin." He pauses, eyes wide as he takes the very tips of your fingers and frowns understandingly.  
  
"You look very sad, miss." _Not pretty?_ you want to say.  
  
"I'm not so sad."  
  
"Did you lose something?" You blink at the words, smiling gently at him. _Not something;_ everything.  
  
"Are you worried about me? I'm flattered."  
  
"I think you shouldn't smile so much, miss," he says. "Not if you don't mean it."  
  
"Oh? And how do you know that I don't mean it?" It takes everything within you to keep your tone mellow, jaunty. You remember the faces of demons, how you've been haunted by them more often than you'd ever care to say. How your smile has since tasted vulgar on your lips.  
  
"Because you're mourning," answers the boy. You stare at him, his oddly colored hair, the blood red jewel set into his forehead. His fingers grab your hand, wrapping almost entirely around your palm. You don't even remember the last time someone held your hand, but the way his eyes shine—as if he's trying to figure out if his assumption was right—make you think of your little brother.  
  
"It's okay, miss. You don't have to tell me." Aladdin smiles beatifically. "But please know that you should really be happy. Go visit your family and friends sometimes!"  
  
"I can't." He stares at your sudden change in tone, the words brusque.  
  
"Why not? Don't you have a family or some friends?"  
  
Your face can't be anything pretty.  
  
You remind yourself that you're no longer the whispers between the trees or the rattling of carts. You're a few meaningless words whispered to make another feel good, the early morning whimpers of a slave under a heavy hand or a whip or filled with disgusting thoughts and touches and men. You're nothing but pretty now.  
  
But you don't feel pretty. You don't feel anything.  
  
"My brother," you whisper, empty fingers tumbling through Aladdin's hair like an old memory. "He would have been about your age."  
  
"What happened to him?"  
  
You smile, and it doesn't reach your eyes, "He was murdered. My father, mother, grandmother, uncle—I'm the only one left."  
  
"Is that why you're sad?"  
  
"I think I'm angry."  
  
"Why?"  
  
You smile, unsure what to say to completely voice your answer. "Because I'm still here."  
  
"Then why don't you leave?"  
  
Leave. It sounded so easy.  
  
"And where would I go?"  
  
"You could come with me!" At this, you can't help a malicious bark of laughter.  
  
"With you? Where are you going?"  
  
"I haven't decided yet. But if you're not happy here, then you shouldn't stay." You cast him a sidelong look, one that speaks volumes about your suspicions.  
  
"You think I would stay here if I had the choice?"  
  
"You've always got the choice." His fingers tightened around your palm. "You've just got to choose for yourself."  
  
  
  
The next time you met that little boy, your hands were stained. But you smiled at him, a tiny smile of relief awash with so many different regrets. It was over.  
  
"I did it," you said. "I left."  
  
He frowned in concern and grabbed your hands as he had before. "Miss, you don't look much better. Are you sure you really left?"  
  
You hesitated, remembering the demons from so long ago. Wondering what kind of demon this boy stared at now. A wry smile slinks across your lips as you formulate the answer that he wasn't looking for.  
  
"I'm not pretty anymore." And then, "My name is..."

**Author's Note:**

> I just don't really like how Magi portrays prostitution. Like, I get how it's not supposed to be very serious, but please...if poverty and class struggles can be serious, why show prostitution like it's not such a big deal?  
> Anyway! I hope you enjoy, even though this is pretty dark? And that ending...


End file.
